5 Times Foggy Took Care Of An Injured Matt
by LeisaTheGreat
Summary: And one time Foggy is the one who got him hurt in the first place. Basically a hurt/comfort 5 and one prompt between Matt and Foggy (though Claire is in it a fair amount too...for obvious reasons) No slash intended.
1. Explosion

A/N: This one takes place late in season one, just FYI. Pre-Daredevil suit.

* * *

Chunks of plaster and drywall crumble down the from ceiling, raining on Matt's unmoving body. Somewhere above him, the supports in the roof creak, shifting, breaking apart piece by tiny piece. He can hear wood splintering, smell the lingering smoke in the air, feel vibrations from the many, rapid footsteps searching for him.

The explosion was powerful, but thankfully contained. Small, but deadly. A homemade grenade the size of a grape. Not enough to cause major damage to the surrounding fishing district, but certainly enough to send the Devil of Hell's Kitchen flying back onto his ass. Then fall through the floor. And then another floor...landing hard on his back with nothing to break his fall except for the unforgiving conrete basement.

A slab of drywall lays on top of him. Heavy, full of wires and broken light fixtures. Its pins him to the ground, throwing sparks and keeping him trapped while his enemies get closer and closer. Still, he doesn't have the strength to push it off. He can barely draw breath with how hard he landed. Every ounce of wind was knocked out of him and now, all he can do is groan and wheeze and struggle to breathe.

"Find him!" someone shouts eratically. "And put a bullet in the bastard's head!"

"Aaa...ffhhnnn...!" Lungs burning, Matt twists his upper body, hoping to at least squirm out from under the slab, if he's not strong enough to push it off. His struggles shift the debis laying around him, piles and piles of shattered glass, dust, and wood he can barely discern through his senses. It makes a hell of a lot of noise.

"What was that?!"

"It came from the basement! Get down there!"

Shit. "Aaaa...c'mon..." Matt claws at the ground, glass slicing his palms, nails jabbing at his face and neck. His shoulders worm free, the slab falling an inch, crushing his stomach and legs under its monstrous weight. Hurts like a bitch but at least he can breathe. Kind of, through the dust and sparks and smoke. Coughing, the Devil tries to twist. With his arms free, he drags himself through the junk all around him just as footsteps find the staircase. He stops, head twitching to the side. Seven heartbeats steadily growing closer. Armed, he can smell lead and gunpowder. A few of them are bleeding, probably from the explosion. None of them are bleeding as badly as he is, though. And none of _them_ are trapped.

With one, final, straining effort, Matt kicks and shoves at the thing weighing him down. The slab shifts, slowly. Teeters, then falls to the side with a burst of dust.

"Fff...haa...aaaah..." Fisks's goons are almost here. Clutching his side, where his snapped ribs grind together, Matt staggers to his feet, doing his best to ignore the fact that he stil can't breathe. That his lungs feel crushed, like they don't have enough room to expand because his ribs are broken and they're in the way.

Head spinning, he stumbles for the staircase, doubled over, grasping his side with one hand, baton in the other.

They're five steps above him.

Swallowing, he readies himself for the fight. He doesn't need to 'beat' them, he just has to get away. He got what he wanted, anyhow: one more clue as to Fisk's whereabouts. Good enough.

* * *

The fight is quick and clean. Even in his broken state, Matt has the element of surprise on his side. He knocks out the first two men, throws a third down the remaining steps, kicks the fourth where a man doesn _not_ want to be kicked, and butts the last two men's heads together so hard they black out.

But there are more coming and he only has minutes to get out before they find him. Not to mention he discovered something during his brief scuffle with the stairwell-goons that his initial adrenaline had been masking. His ribs aren't the only thing that's broken. So is his left wrist. It's swollen and throbbing and absolutely useless.

Jogging up the steps, fingers trailing the wall to keep him oriented, Matt finds himself back on the floor he started on when he found this place, and makes a beeline for the exit. He can hear police sirens in the distance, rapidly closing in.

Matt throws the door open, relishing in fresh air, free from smoke and dust. It clears his mind, freeing his senses. In the gentle breeze, he can hear the squeak of metal, taste rust in the air, feels wind through holes in the metal... A fire escape. Six paces to his right, three feet off the ground, ladder folded up. He hustles for it. Grabs the ladder, pulls is down. It lands with an ear splitting crash. The incoming goons will have heard it too.

Practically scrambling up the fire escape, Matt heads for the roof of the warehouse. Up here, possibilities of escape are endless. Already he can feel the thunder of silent pursuers chasing him. But they're too late. Thank God.

Dropping down into an alleyway on the other side of the building, the Devil disappears into the shadows, his black clothes melting into the darkness of Hell's Kitchen.

* * *

Foggy has had a really shitty night.

First, he couldn't get a taxi to save his life so he had to huff it all the way home from the office. Which is exhausting, by the way. Half way there, though, the strap of his rinky-dink briefcase finally snapped. It wasn't bad enough that it landed in a puddle, but the clasps broke and all of his papers (client rundowns, bills, notes) all scattered to the wind. He lost about a third of them to the gutter, under the tires of passing vehicles, and one-remarkably-to a very hairy homeless guy. The others got stuffed back in in no particular order and most were wet and gross. Like him. Because is started raining too. As if the universe hasn't flipped him the bird _enough_ for one night.

Now he's standing in the middle of his apartment, wet, cold, dirty, sweaty, and exhautsed, flipping the light switch on and off over and over because _dammit_ there's no way in _freaking hell_ his electricity is also out.

Except, yes.

Yes it is.

He doesn't bother calling the landlord. Just drops his broken briefcase full of wet papers on the floor, kicks off his shoes, yanks his tie off and falls face first on the bed.

He's just dozing off when his phone starts buzzing.

"Hnnnn _nnnn...what now_?!" Snatching his phone out of his pocket, he glares at the screen, his scowl softening a little at the candid photo of Matt drinking a beer at Josie's with his friend's name plastered under the "calling" icon. With a sigh, he swipes right and holds the device to his ear. "Hey, buddy."

 _"Hi, Foggy."_

Foggy blinks at the voice, sitting up in his bed. "Claire?" Oh Christ this can't be good.

 _"Yeah, it's me. Look, I'm over at Matt's place and could use a little help if you're available."_

Foggy jumps up, scrambling for his shoes. "What kind of help? Is he okay?"

 _"I'm fine, Foggy. She's overracting."_ Matt's voice in the distance. He sounds tired.

 _"I am not overracting,"_ Claire assures him. _"He's not dying or anything but I could still use another pair of not-blind hands to help me out. No offense, Matt."_

 _"None taken."_

Foggy laughs, mostly out of relief, but the sound is strangled. "What did he do this time?" He hears movement, shuffling, the rustle of clothes. And then Matt hisses in pain. The slight smile that had just found his face falls away again.

 _"He's got some pretty serious lacerations. A bump on the head, some major brusing, two broken ribs, and a broken wrist."_

"Ouch."

 _"Yeah. Anyway, all I'd need you to do is hold a flashlight where I need it and apply saline solution. Maybe help out with stitches if you're still interested in learning."_

"Flashlight? Is your electric out too?"

 _"Yep, whole neighborhood's dark."_

 _"Is it?"_ Matt sounds almost genuine.

"I'll be right over, Claire."

 _"Thanks, I really appreciate the help."_

"See you." He hangs up, sighing, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He foregoes his suit jacket and just grabs a regular raincoat instead, heading for the door. Seeing as how watching his best friend squirm in pain and blood on the carpet is at least in his top five least favorite things to do on a Friday night, looks like this shitty night is about to get even shittier.

* * *

Matt hears Foggy coming long before he reaches the building. With the ever-present hum of electricity, televisions, radios, computers, and everything else gone dead in the blackout, the neighborhood is suddenly deafeningly quiet, so Foggy's jogging footsteps are surprisingly noticable. Partly in thanks to Matt doing his absolute best to think about _anything_ but the needle plunging in and out of his right ankle, where a chunk of glass sliced him open dangerously near an artery. He shivers at the feeling of thread pulling through his skin and then goes back to focusing on Foggy. He's inside now, thumping up the steps. He smells like wet cotton and sweat and rainwater. Did he walk the whole way here?

A moment later, he pounds on the door. Matt can hear water dripping from his friend's clothes, and him panting. Claire jumps at the booming sound, then relaxes when Matt tells her it's only Foggy.

Out on pure habit, he tries to peel himself off the couch but Claire pushes him back down, with what he assumes to be a very grouchy look. "Tears those stitches and you're fixing them yourself." She pads over to the door and pulls it open, greeting Foggy without so much as a hello. "He's in the living room. Flashlight's in my bag."

They come around the corner and Foggy pauses, looking him over as best he can in the meager light coming in through the window. Claire breezes past him, kneeling back down where she was.

"Thought you said you couldn't stitch him because it was too dark."

"Didn't have a choice with a few of the injuries, they were bleeding too badly. The stitches are sloppy though and trying to do this in the dark is _killing_ my eyes. Trust me, you're gonna be a big help..." She drops a piece of bloody glass into a dish beside it.

Foggy fumbles blindly through the bag, struggling to find the flashlight.

"To your left," Matt says. "In the side pocket."

"Show off..." Foggy muttes, getting a chuckle from Matt.

"Just trying to help."

"Yeah that does seem to be the crux of all your problems..." That comment shuts the conversations down for a while. Foggy stands beside Matt, shining a beam of light over his various injuries while Claire pulls the needle in and out.

Blood drips onto her scrubs, onto the hardwood floors, coppery smell filling the air. Black and blue bruises glow in the light, Matt's chest moving carefully with each breath, his broken wrist laying elevated on the arm of the couch. Crooked and bruised, fingers motionless, even while the other hand grips into a fist with each tug of the thread. Matt's face is littered with scrapes, blood dripping from his hairline, nose dark red between his eyes.

Foggy swallows, shaking his head. "What the hell happened to you, Matt? Look like you got caught into a fist fight with a tiger."

Matt chuckles again, wincing. "Uh, no. There were no large felines involved."

"Then what was it?"

Claire lifts her head, obviously curious as well.

"Explosion."

"What? Where? I didn't hear about any explosion."

"You wouldn't have," Matt shifts, rubbing his ribs. "I was at the docks, had a lead to Fisk's whereabouts. One of his guys, pretty high up, was in an old warehouse there. I got in, got the information I needed and was about to get out but..." He shakes his head. "A whole truck load of assholes showed up, just outta no where. I heard the vehicle, sure, but...I got careless. Thought I was in the clear. They were too far away, you know?"

"So how'd they get you?" Foggy asks.

"Grenade."

"Jesus, Matt!" Claire gasps. "A grenade?!"

"Tiny. Homemade. No bigger than...say, a walnut. It was barely enough to blow out the windows but it sent my stupid ass flying."

"Christ, Matt..." Foggy hadn't realized he'd lowered the flashlight until Claire sighs and tells him she can't see what she's doing.

"It was just a careless mistake," Matt assures them. "If I'd been paying attention, I would have heard it."

"Wouldn't have happened at all if you'd stop this crazy shit..." Foggy grumbles, half regretting it as soon as it leaves his mouth. He's far from happy about Matt's "extracurricular acitivies" but between almost losing him as a friend and and almost losing him _in general_ , he's content to reluctantly play along. He knows Matt will never stop and fighting it just makes things tense.

Thankfully, Matt ignores him and things go quiet again for a while. But even awkward silence is better than an argument.

Claire finishes stitching up the last of Matt's more serious injuries and moves onto his wrist. Her fingers are gentle, just barely skimming the appendage. After a few seconds, she sighs and shakes her head. "It's broken, but we already knew that. Can't tell how bad it is without an X-Ray... Don't suppose you'd be willing to pop over to the ER for a scan...?"

Matt's mouth pulls into a crooked smirk. "No thanks. I trust you, Claire. Just do what you can."

"Won't be much..." she mutters.

Still aiming to cover up the outburst causing tension between them, Foggy speaks up. "It's just a broken wrist, Matt. Lots of people get those. It would be pretty easy to make up a story just long enough to get it fixed..."

But Matt refuses. "Even if I got cleaned up before going, they'd still ask questions. Did I hit my head? Can they preform a quick examination just to be sure I'm not injured anywhere else? It's too complicated, Foggy."

Needless to say, Foggy relents and Claire does what she can for the broken bone. Namely realigning it in an extremely excrutating looking manner which Matt takes like a champ, although he's left breathless and clutching his ribs once it's done. Afterward, she practically shoves a couple pain pills down his throat and wraps his wrist in a tight, black bandage meant to keep the bone from shifting. With that, there isn't much more she can do so she and Matt say their goodbyes. Matt thanks her profusely and she shrugs him off with her classic nonchalance.

"Keep an eye on him, Foggy. Let me know if he shows signs of a concussion."

"Will do. Thanks for dropping by."

"Uh-huh." The door clicks shut behind her and suddenly Matt and Foggy are alone. Foggy lingers in the entryway, hands in his pockets. He can hear Matt shifting on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. He won't be able to find one in his condition.

Part of Foggy yearns to leave. To go home and get some sleep. There's nothing he can do for Matt, anyway. Except get him water here and there and sit in uncomfortable silence while he sleeps...

But the other part knows he has to stay. Matt may be the world's biggest dickhead but he's still his best friend. And, even though he might insist otherwise, he does need help.

That water's not gonna get itself...

Right on cue, Matt speaks up. "Hey, Foggy, you've gotta be exhausted. There's no need for you to stick around, I'm alright. Go home, get some sleep."

"Nah," Foggy turns the corner, trying his best to sound nonchalant. Like this doesn't bother him at all. "I think I'll stick around for a while. Hey, you got anything good in the fridge?"

Matt pauses. "Uh...I don't know. There's some leftover takeout, I think."

"Dibs."

Finally settling onto his back on the couch, his wrist laying over his waist to keep it straight, Matt says, "It's all yours, buddy."

Foggy sticks the takeout in the microwave, popping the lid off a beer. "You want some?" He hits the button on the mircowave then curses when he remembers the electricity is off. Matt snickers at him from across the dark room.

"No thanks."

"Beer?"

"Not right now."

"Water? Anything?"

"I'm fine, Foggy. Thanks anyway."

Foggy shrugs, sipping his beer. "Fine, starve then." He pulls the cold Thai food out of the microwave and grabs a fork, dropping into the arm chair across from the couch. It's not very good cold and it kind of tastes like refrigerator but he's suddenly starving and doesn't much care. "You really need to get a TV, man."

Matt chuckles. He sounds tired all of a sudden but is trying to stay awake. Partly for Foggy's sake and partly because Claire told him to stay awake for a few hours to be sure he doesn't have a head injury. "Don't have much use for one. Besides, it wouldn't work right now anyway."

"Damn, yeah..."

"I've got books."

"It's pitch black in here, dude. Besides, all your books are in braille."

"Thought you took a class."

"On YouTube. For like, three minutes. Braille is way harder than you make it look."

"You just have to practice." Matt apparently decides laying down makes the thought of sleep too enticing. He tries to sit up, grabbing at the back of the couch, a groan escaping his throat. He struggles for a moment before collapsing back down, huffing both in frustration and exhaustion.

"You want help?"

Rubbing his side, which still throbs despite the pain killers, Matt shakes his head, then realizes that-for once-Foggy's the one who can't see. Smirking, he can't help but take advantage of the moment. "I shook my head."

Foggy snorts. "Yeah, laugh it up while you can. Meanwhile, I'm gonna use your cane to find my way to the john."

"By all means. It's by the front door." He grins tiredly at the ceiling, listening to Foggy blindly shuffling toward the cane, then tapping his way to the bathroom. He laughs, hearing him bump into the wall, then tunes him out once he's in the bathroom itself. While Foggy isn't here to mother-hen him, Matt tries once more to sit up. Grunting, shaking slightly, he pulls himself up, clutching his ribs. His head spins violently, a side effect of the blood loss and maybe the pain killers as well.

By the time Foggy steps out of the bathroom, Matt is laying back down again as if he never got up. He might fall asleep this way but at least he isn't so dizzy... Foregoing the cane, Foggy pads into the kitchen, running his fingers along the wall to keep oriented. Probably learned that from Matt. He grabs a glass, fills it, and brings it to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table in front of his friend.

"You should drink," he says.

Matt obeys just to make him happy. He also accepts the sliced orange Foggy offers him a moment later under the pretense that he wanted one...though Foggy didn't eat a single bite of it. Crafty bastard. Beyond that, they chat quietly for a while as the electricity flickers and fights to come back on. Matt can hear the bulbs pinging and the occasional growl of the generators in the basement. Eventually, they come on and don't go off again and Foggy cheers.

Matt finds his phone on the edge of the coffee table, clicking around until the automated voice tells him the time. It's extremely late. Or, early now.

"Hey, Foggy, I'm serious. Go home, get some sleep. I'll be okay."

His friend pauses. "You sure?"

"I think I'm gonna hit the hay, yeah. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Screw that, I'll come by after work."

Matt can't help but smile a little at that. Things have been okay between him and Foggy for a few weeks now. _Okay_ being the operative word. Today, even as shitty as it was, is the closest they've gotten to normal in quite a while... "That works for me."

"Alright, see you tomorrow." Foggy sounds immensely pleased, happier than Matt's heard him in weeks. He grabs his raincoat, though it's stopped pouring out, and heads for the door. They say their goodnights and Matt stays awake just until Foggy has hailed a cab and is safely of his way home. After that, he lays his phone back on the table and stretches out on the couch, letting himself drift off. Every fiber of his body aches and he can still feel the crushing weight of debris pressing into his lungs, but Matt falls asleep with a slight smile on his face.

Tomorrow is gonna suck. He's going to hurt all over, almost certainly too badly to go to work. And he doesn't have much in the ways of pain medicine. Just aspirin. And meditation. But hey.

At least he won't be alone.


	2. Smoke Inhalation

The fire is out of control.

A whole row of townhouses up in flames. Every fire engine in Hell's Kitchen working to douse the raging inferno with water, foam, and just about everything else they can think of. Firemen rush in and out, dragging burn and smoke victims out by the dozen, and yet more screams of agony can be heard piercing the night air, pleading, crying...

It's arson, Matt can tell by the overwhelming stench of gasoline and spent matches. The townhouses are bathed in the chemical odor, leading from door to door, and finally away into an alley across the street. He could track the arsonist with ease, knock out his teeth, and throw him to the NYPD like a nice, juicy steak into a den of lions. But that's a job for another time. Right now, he's got a more pressing issue to attend to.

The firemen and police don't see him coming. They're too busy fighting the flames and keeping out the gawkers. Ultimately, it's an EMT who notices him first. A shadowy, red devil stalking across the asphalt, ducking past the barrier tape, and kicking open the door to the east-most apartment. It's not visibly on fire, which is likely why no one has gone in yet to check on the folks living here. But the single heartbeat inside is growing weaker and weaker by the second, the smell of smoke so powerful Matt can't help but wonder how even someone with _normal_ senses wouldn't notice.

Even behind the mask, his eyes begin to sting. The smoke is thick, funneling in from the ventilation somewhere on the second floor. He can feel it slithering through the air, stinging his skin and burning his throat. Still, he keeps moving, navigating by sound and touch since his nose and mouth are too busy suffocating.

The child is upstairs, alone. Very young and very scared. They're not unconsious yet but are too weak to yell for help.

Matt covers his mouth as he sprints up the stairs, feeling the vibration of his own footfalls to count the steps he has to take. Fifteen up and he hits a landing. He has to pause, both to breathe, and to listen. His lungs are shrieking and he can't keep his eyes open, but the heartbeat is still fading... On his left.

He turns, tilts his head. He can hear his ragged breaths hitting walls, the way his coughing echoes around. There's a doorway. Inside is something made of wood and cotton, a bed maybe. Glass, too, probably a window. Feeling blindly for the doorknob, Matt twists the handle, cursing when he finds it locked.

He doesn't bother calling out to the person inside to open up. They're too far gone to hear him. Stepping back, he gives the door a powerful kick, throwing his whole body's momentum. The hallway vibrates at the snap of wood, the bending of metal... The door swings open and Matt rushes in, coughing at the wave of smoke that slams him in the lungs. It's beginning to hurt just to breathe.

The child is motionless, save for shallow, raspy breaths. He fumbles for her, scooping the child up and all but tossing her over his shoulder. Back out the door, he staggers for the staircase, fingers trailing the wall, struggling to keep himself on a straight line when his world on fire is so distorted and every one of his senses are screaming in pain.

He trips on the second step down, clipping the wall and sliding a few steps before recovering. Gripping the bannister with one hand and shifting the young girl on his other shoulder, Matt stumbles down the last few steps, his knees beginning to sag as he reaches the bottom. His head has begun to spin.

Bursting out into the cool, night air is more than refreshing. It feels breathtaking, having that hot, singing smoke off his face and out of his sinuses. The closest EMT to him is already hard at work but the victim on Matt's shoulder doesn't have time to wait for him to find someone else. Daredevil trudges over to the paramedic, who stiffens at the sight of him.

"This girl needs help," he wheezes, laying her down in the dew-coated grass. "She's inhaled too much smoke and her throat has swelled shut. She's been out for probably a minute and a half. Pulse is around 40." He tilts his head, listening. "Your other patient will be fine. His lungs sound clear. Burn isn't too severe."

The paramedic is probably gaping at him like he's a lunatic but Daredevil just turns on his heel and heads for the next apartment. This time, he can tell it's an old man just by the way he sounds. Creaking joints, rasping, baritone coughs. Matt throws open the door and heads up the stairs again, finding the old man in the kitchenette, collapsed on the floor. He can taste copper in the air, even through the smoke. The man must have smacked his head when he fell.

Daredevil slings one of the old man's arms around his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. The geezer fights him weakly, deliriously. He's probably got a concussion on top of the smoke inhalation by the way there are drips of blood smashing into the floor tiles. Matt just holds him still as best he can and drags him toward the steps.

He's just about to start descending toward the front door when he pauses, his head instinctively jerking to the side. There's someone here, outside, that shouldn't be here. The cops are telling him to stay behind the tape. They're arguing about something.

Matt frowns when he recognizes the voice. What the hell is Foggy doing out here in the middle of the night? Arguing with cops, nonethless.

But Daredevil is snapped back to reality when the old man gives a feeble moan and slumps toward the floor. Readjusting the man's weight, Matt starts for the staircase.

He gets halfway down before the man swings at him again. The blow is weak but, admittedly, unexpected. Matt stumbles, swearing, and tries to grab the old man before he can fall. But it's too late, he's pitched forward, already off balance.

They go down together, Matt twisting around so the man lands on top of him. His shoulders clip every step on the way down, crashing to the floor so hard the light fixture in the ceiling rattles and pieces of burned drywall crumble onto his face.

"Ahh..." Matt winces, reaching up to push the old guy's weight off of him so he can breathe. That's when a set of footsteps approaches, their vibrations tingling up and down Matt's aching spine. It's one of the firemen, his tank of oxygen clanging against his back, dragging a hose. He sets one foot inside, freezes, then runs back out, shouting for help.

"We've got two men down in here!" he yells, and a handful of others come running.

Again, Matt struggles to free himself from the surprisingly heavy geezer but his head is spinning from the smoke and his muscles feel unaturally weak... It takes him a moment to realize he can barely lift his head off the floor, let alone push a two hundred pound man off of himself.

The world on fire is starting to fade away by the time the firemen arrive to help. The old man is taken and then Matt gets lifted up as well, carried under his armpits and his knees out into the bitter cold night. They lay him in the grass and someone kneels beside him, touches his throat, feeling for a pulse. They speak but his hearing is too muted to understand their words. Matt jumps when something cold and hard is pressed to his face, but the blast of air that rushes down his throat feels magical and he doesn't fight it when they strap the oxygen mask over his helmet, count his pulse, and check him over for injuries. All that matters is they don't try to reveal his face, so beyond that he doesn't care _what_ they do.

He just wants to lay there, not move, and just breathe for a while.

The paramedic has other ideas, though. His hands prod Matt's neck and shoulders, probably feeling for injuries, where there are none. If he had a broken bone or dislocated joint, he would be able to tell. He'd be able to hear it. But he senses nothing. Just bruises. Lots of bruises. Matt turns away from him, groaning.

"Hey, just take it easy..." the paramedic says, sternly but with a certain kindness. He sounds like Claire. "You inhaled a lot of smoke and took quite a fall."

"I'm fine," Matt grinds out, suddenly finding his voice. "Nothing's broken." He stiffens, feeling the EMT's hands probing around his wrist, trying to roll up the sleeve of his suit. He wants to move away, to swat the gloved hands off of him, but his body is too heavy. "What are you doing?" he demands instead.

"I'm going to start an IV to help manage the pain."

Those words are enough to get Matt moving. He rips the oxygen mask off his face and struggles to sit up, fighting the paramedic who tries to force him to lay back down.

"Sir! You're in no condition to-"

"Hey!" Foggy's voice... Rapid footsteps. Foggy closes in on them, takes the paramedic by his elbow, leads him away. Even though he's whispering, Matt can hear what he's saying...and Foggy knows it. "Don't you know who that guy is?" he asks, urgently.

The paramedic pauses. "Um...Daredevil, right?"

"Uh, yeah! _The Devil of Hell's Kitchen_!"

Matt almost smiles. The paramedic's heart rate kicks up a notch.

"L-look, sir, you shouldn't be here!"

"Listen, I'm just trying to help you out here...I don't think you should be messing around with a guy like that."

The paramedic audibly chews his lip. "He was saving an old man."

"I'm not saying he isn't trying to help," Foggy argues. "I'm just saying he's dangerous. And all...turned around from falling. He probably hit his head. He's not safe to be around."

"I can't just-"

"Look, man, I'm a lawyer. If a patient refuses help, there's nothing you can do. That's what he was doing, right? Refusing your help?"

The paramedic is clearly lost. His heart rate is through the roof and Matt can almost smell his confusion.

Good old Foggy.

Peeling himself off the ground, Matt winces, touching the back of his head. The helmet covers it but he's fairly sure he's got a bump the size of golf ball... Nonetheless, he can't stick around here. Not with the threat of pain killers and hospitals around every corner. He staggers once he gets to his feet, but only for a second. After that, his head catches up to the rest of him and he hustles off into the nearest alleyway he can find, disappearing from the scene.

There are no more screams to be heard, anyway.

Everyone is either safe...or beyond helping.

* * *

Five minutes later, Matt's burner phone starts buzzing. He's almost home, just a few more blocks, but he pauses to answer anyway.

"Hello?"

 _"Wow, you sound like shit."_

Matt blinks. "Claire?"

 _"Were you expecting some other grudgingly concerned nurse to call you at almost two in the morning?"_

"I thought this was gonna be Foggy. Did he call you?"

 _"Sure did. Said you were in a fire. Breathed in a lot of smoke and maybe hit your head. How do you feel?"_

"Uh, I'm alright. Sore throat, obviously, and one hell of a headache but I'll live." He's just reached his building. Going around back, he climbs the fire escape up to the roof and drops in through the corner window.

 _"I don't doubt it. But do me a favor, Matt, have Foggy come stay with you for the night."_

"Claire-"

 _"I'm serious, Matt. Smoke inhalation is no joke. Neither are head injuries. Just one night, that's all I'm asking. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."_

Matt sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "You obviously haven't been around us together recently..."

Claire pauses on the other end. When she speaks, her voice is low with concern. _"What, are you guys...are you guys fighting? Again?"_

"Not really fighting, just...I don't know. Things are tense." As if Neslon and Murdock offically shutting down and their friendship all but collapsing could only be considered 'tense'.

 _"Still, it would make me feel better to know you're not alone."_

Stripping off his helmet and suit, Matt cracks a thin smile. "You worried about me, Claire?"

 _"Not often. But...I've seen a lot of cases like yours turn sour, Matt... Normally, I'd come over and stay with you myself, just in case, but I've got the shift from hell at the ER and I can't risk taking another sick day."_

With a heavy sigh, which turns into a wheezing cough, Matt relents. "Alright, alright I'll...see what I can do."

 _"Thanks, Matt. Goodnight."_

"Night, Claire." He hangs up and is just about to keep his word to her when he hears footsteps jogging up the stairs outside his front door, along with a thumping heart beat, and rapid breaths. He jumps at the pounding on his door, the smell of after shave, sweat, and Josie's whiskey sour.

Matt takes the extra moment to peel off his Daredevil suit. He knows it's only Foggy but he has a feeling the favor he's about to ask will go down better if he's not dressed like the devil... Wadding the suit into a ball, he tosses it into the wardrobe with a mental note to run it through the wash a few times to get the stench of smoke out. Foggy knocks a few more times and Matt jogs over, coughing as he opens the door.

"Hey," Matt says.

"Uh, hey..." Foggy smells lightly of smoke. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." Matt moves to the side and Foggy steps in, shutting the door behind himself. He stands there quietly for a while, his breath hitching every so often like he wants to speak, only he doesn't know what to say. Matt takes a mercy on him and walks back to the living room, giving his friend-former friend?-room to think. Besides, his apartment is chilly and he's only in his boxers. One pair of light grey sweats later and Foggy seems ready to speak. He's standing by the window, hands in his pockets.

"So what," he says. "You're Matt Murdock: lawyer by day, vigilante by night, fireman on the side...?"

Matt chuckles, he can't help it. "Not quite."

But Foggy isn't laughing. "You know, your _super-senses_ or whatever might help you fight bad guys and do mad parkour...but they don't help you breathe smoke or...not get hurt from falling down stairs..."

"I know." Matt supresses the urge to cough.

"Thought you said you weren't trying to be a hero."

"I'm not."

"Coulda' fooled me. You know, you could have been really seriously hurt, Matt. So, what? Now I have to worry myself sick not only when I hear police sirens, but firetrucks too?"

"You don't need to worry about me."

"Sure." He scoffs, shaking his head. "I called Claire. Hope you don't mind."

"I know, she gave me a call."

"What'd she say?"

Matt sits down on the couch, trying to look casual even though his head has started spinning again. His stomach churns slightly, nausea rising in his stomach. Partly because of his probable concussion, and partly at the idea of asking Foggy to stay with him. It wasn't appealing before and it sure as hell sounds like a _terrible_ idea now.

Still, he doesn't want to lie.

 _God_ he's so sick of lying.

"She said she was worried, didn't want me to be alone. Said smoke inhalation can be dangerous." Oddly enough, telling the truth doesn't make him feel better. Especially when Foggy's heart rate kicks up a notch.

"Dangerous how?"

"She didn't specify."

A long, uncomfortable silence falls between them while Foggy silently mulls over his choices, pacing to the kitchen in a weak attempt to seem natural. He grabs a beer from the fridge, closes it, then opens it again and grabs a second one, handing it to Matt.

"Thanks."

Foggy doesn't open his beer and neither does Matt. After a dragging, tense silence, Foggy sets his beer on the coffee table and says, "I could stay here for the night...if you want."

"You don't have to. I'm alright."

"Not according to Claire."

Matt sighs. He, too, sets down his unopened beer and sits forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. "Look..." He doesn't know what he wants to say, just that he feels like he needs to fight this somehow. The longer he and Foggy spend in the same room, the worse things get between them.

And he _really_ doesn't want things to get worse, but honestly, he doesn't have the energy to deal with it right now.

"Stay if you want to," he mutters, suddenly tired. "I think I'm gonna hit the sack..." Matt doesn't bother trying to work out Foggy's reaction. His body feels like lead and it's enough work just to get to his feet.

Maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe it's because The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has just tripped over his own coffee table, but Foggy grabs Matt by the arm-none too gently-and guides him to the bedroom. Matt thanks him, quietly, subdued, and falls onto the matress with a heavy sigh that turns into a racking cough.

Foggy turns like he's going to walk out but pauses in the doorway as Matt coughs and coughs, wheezes, and coughs some more. "You need a drink?" he asks, but Matt doesn't answer. Can't, really. He's still coughing. Foggy hustles to the kitchen, listening to the choking gasps of Matt trying to catch his breath. He grabs a glass, fills it with water, and hurries back to the room, placing it in Matt's hand.

His friend takes a few, deep swallows, and his coughing fit fades after that. "Thanks," he rasps out, laying down. He looks spent. Eyes puffy and irritated from the smoke, nose and mouth chapped and red, skin slightly paler than usual. Foggy takes the glass and refills it in the kitchen just to get away.

Half of him feels bad. For Matt, for the obvious pain he's in, for the way they fight nowadays...and is genuinely scared his friend is gonna get worse overnight. The other half is mad as a hornet and wants to stomp out the door and never come back, to just throw everything to the wind and say 'screw Matt Murdock, he did this to himself!'.

The decision he makes falls somewhere in between.

He sets the glass of water on the end table beside Matt's bed without a word, then crashes on the couch and finally opens his beer. Matt's too. He falls asleep about an hour later, three more empty bottles littered around him.

* * *

When Foggy wakes the next morning, Matt is still asleep. It's almost ten in the morning and he has three missed calls. One from Marci, one from his new office, and one from Karen. He isn't really eager to talk to any of them but the fact that it's almost ten and his office has called reminds him that he no longer works for himself...he has a _job_. And office hours. And he's an hour late. Shit.

Jabbing out the number, it rings five times before getting answer.

 _"Foggy-bear, there you are. I was just about to start calling hospitals."_

"Really?" Who are you and what have you done with Marci?

 _"No. Where the hell are you? You're late."_ There she is.

"I know, I'm-I'm sorry. I overslept and never set an alarm-"

 _"I don't care,"_ she interrupts. _"Just get your sweet ass down here before you lose your job and make me look bad."_

"How would me losing my job make you look bad?"

 _"I vouched for you remember, Foggy-bear? Plus, everyone in the office knows we're sleeping together."_

"They do...? Uh-never mind. I'll be right down!" Marci hangs up without so much as a goodbye and Foggy stuffs his phone into his pocket. Running to the mirror hanging in the bathroom, he's worrying over the wrinkles in his shirt and jacket when Matt pads out into the living room, yawning. He looks better than last night, not as pale. He pauses by the bathroom door, turns his head in Foggy's general direction and says,

"It's almost ten in the morning. Aren't you late for work?"

"Yeah." Foggy hurries out into the living room, brushing past Matt. He grabs his tie and sneakers and then curses, remembering his office's strict dress code. Basically anything with a rubber heel that costs less than three hunderd bucks is frowned upon and called 'unprofessional'.

"What's wrong?" Matt has gone to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. It smells heavenly. Too bad Foggy doesn't have time to breathe, let alone get a drink.

"You have some decent loafers or something I could borrow? Dress code."

Matt makes a face. "Your office has a dress code?" But he heads for the closet anyway.

"Yeah. Weird right?"

Matt pulls out a shoe box that doesn't look like it's been touched in ages. He brushes off the dust and hands it to Foggy. "Haven't worn 'em since college. Hope they fit."

Foggy remembers these shoes. Black, leather, expensive. They each bought a pair when they landed that internship at Landman and Zack, wore them once, then (in Matt's case) put them back in the box and never put themselves through that pain again.

In Foggy's case, sold them for thirty bucks to help pay rent one time.

Matt's shoe size is one too small but Foggy'll make it work. He thanks Matt profusely, crams his feet into the shoes, grabs his briefcase and heads for the door. "You want me to call Claire on my way and tell her you're still alive?"

Matt smirks. "I can call her."

"Yes, but will she believe you? The guy who literally says 'I'm fine' when his guts are almost spilling out."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Is it, Matthew?" Foggy can't help but smile. He's still pissed at Matt for being reckless but he's always been the type to forget about anger and grudges after a good night's sleep. It's a blessing and a curse, honestly. Sometimes he wishes he could stay mad, but it's not in his DNA. Kind of like cured meats and cheese...

Speaking of which, he's starving.

Thankfully Hogar, Chao, and Benowitz has free bagels. Seems like that's the only good thing about these soulless law firms... Well, that and a paycheck with more than double digits.

Pulling open the door, Foggy pauses one last time. "You're gonna stay home today, right? No derring-dos?"

"Uh, that's the plan for now."

"For now?"

Matt peeks around the corner, a thin smirk on his lips. "Go to work, Foggy. I'll be here."

Somehow, Foggy doesn't believe him.

Nevertheless, he has a job to get to. Shutting the door behind him, he sprints down the steps and out onto the sidewalk, hailing the first cab he sees.

Little does Matt know, he's planning an ambush. After work, he'll go by his friend's apartment. 'Drop in' to see how he's doing. That's if here's there at all...

Which he better be.

He may be the world's biggest dickhead but he's still Foggy's friend (though sometimes it's hard to remember that part...). And he'll be _damned_ if he's gonna let him get himself killed. Not if he can help it.

Even if that means putting up with the occasional dickery.


	3. Drowning

Matt learned to swim when he was seven, two years before losing his vision. He liked it alright back then, but he'll be the first to admit that blindness and swimming don't exactly go hand in hand. Even for someone with super senses like him.

It's just that sound travels...faster in water. Makes things hard to comprehend, like trying to listen to a movie on fast forward. Sure, it can be done, but it's a struggle and takes a lot of concentration. He avoids it as best he can since he isn't a fan of smacking his head on the sides of a pool. But as Daredevil, sometimes he doesn't have his choice of venue for all-out fist fights...

* * *

The fight wasn't hard, more exhausting than anything else. His opponent-believe it or not-was a boxer. Small time, but obviously talented. Probably a low-ranking MMA cage fighter with a decent following and a small fortune in winnings. Of course, that's just assumption on Matt's part. The only solid facts he could gather from the shady fighter was that he had just finished up a work out at that gym around the block, the one ironically built beside a bakery. He could smell sweat, work out equipment, and cinnamon on him. He liked rap music of the extremely loud variety and muscle cars with heavily scented air fresheners.

Oh, and beating the senses out of defenseless referees on their way home from the public pool.

Matt had actually been on his way home after a fairly uneventful patrol when he heard the sounds of a struggle. He sprinted the five blocks, past the bakery and gym, past the YMCA, and around the corner into the dark alleyway where Macial Rivero-the 220 pound, five-foot eleven MMA fighter-was mericlessly pummeling Isaiah Bramson-100-nothing pound, five-foot four-part time referee into the ground. Probably for a bad point or a lost match.

Of course, Daredevil didn't care what the pummeling was for, only that if it didn't stop, the referee was likely to die.

The fight was long, exhuasting, and tedious.

Rivero was a mule. Strong, stubborn, with an unending supply of energy. He jabbed, dodged, kicked, all at the right times. Matt countered as best he could but he was already tired from a long day at the office and an even longer night.

It took almost ten minutes of back and forth before Rivero slipped up and Matt was able to take him down with a dirty move that landed him flat on his back, one arm twisted to the breaking point. By then, Daredevil was panting and sweating while Rivero squirmed like he could go another five or six rounds of this. Luckily for Matt, the guy was pinned and wouldn't have the opportunity to cause anymore trouble. He knocked him out, phoned the NYPD anonymously from a nearby payphone, and waited nearby until an ambulance and cruiser arrived to pick up the unconscious referee and attacker, respectively.

* * *

Unfortunately, it's not until the cops are long gone and Matt has officially let down his guard-too tired and achy to think about anything other than sleep-that Rivero's buddy decides to make his appearance.

One second Matt is striding down the alley, looking for a good spot to get to the roof...and in the next, he's grabbed from behind, hauled into a building through a set of heavy steel door and thrown onto the unforgiving tile floor of a men's locker room. All without warning. He never heard the man coming, never smelled his sweat or breath that reaks of cigarettes and booze. Never felt the footfalls of a two hundred pound pursuer behind him.

He must be further off his game than he thought.

Lumbering, drunken footsteps stalk closer to him. His attacker already smells like blood.

Daredevil twists out of the way before the man can kick him. Jumping to his feet, he strikes out, his fist connecting with the man's jaw so hard he hears teeth cracking.

But the drunk boxer only stumbles slightly, rubs his chin, and grabs Matt by the throat, throwing him backwards. He crashes into the lockers behind him, leaving a dent, then hits the floor again, groaning.

"That wasss my _buddy_ you got arrested, _jack_ ass..." the attacker slurs, stumbling.

Matt pushes himself up, his head aching from the impact.

"That _dick_ referee was _crooked_ , man! Macial shoulda' won! Everyone saw it!"

"Your buddy was gonna kill him," Staggering to his feet, Matt squares off against his attacker again. "Couldn't let that happen."

The man lurches toward him, hands outstretched toward his throat.

Daredevil twists away, striking the back of the man's head with his baton. His attacker yelps and hits the ground on his elbows and knees. But he's surprisngly fast for such a large, drunk man. He rolls out of the way before Matt can put him down for good, grabbing something light and made of wood. A broom, maybe.

It flies at Matt, missing by a hair when he ducks away.

A powerful, muscular shoulder crashes into Daredevil's gut not a second later, trying to tackle him. Matt strikes out before he can go down, his knee cracking the man's ribs.

Stumbling to stay on his feet, and rubbing his midsection, Matt listens to his attacker falling down. Wheezing, moaning, his broken bones grinding together.

The Devil straightens, sliding his batons back into their sheath on his thigh. "Get yourself to a doctor," he growls. "And lay off the booze. You're not a very smart drunk." With that, he turns on his heel and heads for the steel doors he was pulled in through.

"I got friends, asshole!" The drunk moans. "They'll get you for this!"

"Uh-huh." The doors slam shut behind Matt and he climbs a fire escape nearby, heading home for the night.

* * *

Matt locks the wardrobe and then falls onto the couch, wincing. His apartment is chilly at night and he's holding a bag of frozen veggies to his bruised midsection but he's too exhausted to go looking for a pair of sweats to wear. Letting his eyes fall shut, he picks up his phone off the coffee table, tapping around by memory until the automated voice starts talking.

 _"You have...one message. Message one: recieved at 10:23 PM..."_

 _"Matt, it's Foggy. I dropped by your place earlier and you weren't home so I'm assuming you're...ya know 'working the night shift' again. Call me when you get back, we've gotta talk about Miller."_

Click.

Matt sighs. Tapping around on the screen, his phone tells him it's almost three in the morning. He doubts Foggy is still awake at this hour but knows if he doesn't call back, his friend will worry. Pressing speed dial one, Matt waits with his eyes closed as the phone rings and rings. Eventually, an obviously half asleep Foggy picks up.

 _"H'llo...?"_

"Foggy, it's Matt."

 _"Jesus, man. It's almost...three a.m. Have a late night?"_

"Yeah, you could say that. I got your message. Sounded urgent."

 _"Uhh...fsshh...yeah. I guess."_ On the other end, Foggy shifts around. Matt can hear the rustling of sheets and a stifled yawn. _"Miller stopped by this evening after you left the office."_

Miller. Their newest and shadiest client yet. Matt hasn't been crazy about the prospect of defending him from the start but he's been adamant in his innocence and, although he never outright lied, he's obviously holding something back from them. Still, he's an actual, real-life _paying_ client. He and Foggy talked it over and decided it's worth the risk. They need cash if they want to keep the lights on...

"What'd he have to say?" Matt asks.

 _"Uh, you know that old saying 'be careful what you wish for'?"_

"Yeah...?"

 _"Well, you got what you wished for. Miller's got himself a new lawyer. One of the fancy, high-end guys. Said he wasn't sure how comfortable he was being defended by such newbies."_

Matt snorts. "He said that?"

 _"Eh, more or less. It's what he meant."_

Sighing deeply, Matt tosses the frozen veggies aside. "Great. Our only paying client."

 _"What do we do from here? You heard Karen, we can't afford to keep on with this charity act of ours..."_

"I'll, uh, see what I can scrape together...I won't charge people who can't afford it, Foggy. Without us, all those people will get sent to some public defender who doesn't give a shit about them."

 _"I know, buddy. I know."_

"Listen, I'll...I'll call you back in the morning and we can try to figure something out. Right now, I'm so exhausted I can't think straight."

 _"Alright, but...Matt?"_

"Yeah?"

 _"Are you...you're not hurt, are you?"_

"No, just tired."

 _"You sure?"_

Matt snickers. "I'm fine. Some new bruises for the collection but nothing more than that. I'll see you in the morning, Foggy."

 _"Alright, see you tomorrow."_

Matt lays the phone down and shuts his eyes, eager for rest. However, his mind refuses to quiet. He wonders about the teenage girl he saved earlier, if she got home alright. He wonders about the couple of tourists he saved from getting mugged, the child who narrowly escaped being kidnapped, the bartender that almost got stabbed.

His mind wanders to Miller, but only briefly. Nothing he can do about it.

And he wonders about the boxer and his drunk, stupid friend.

Sleep somehow cruelly evades him for the rest of the night, thanks to his overactive mind and is alarm goes off three hours later, just as his cheeks feel the first rays of sun coming through the window.

It's been a long time since he's pulled an all nighter...since way back in college.

He wasn't very good at it back then either, come to think of it.

Nonetheless, he peels himself off the couch, gets dressed, and trudges out the door.

* * *

The day drags on and on.

A handful of clients trickle in and out, asking for updates on their cases, handing over paperwork, signatures, and the like. Nothing extraordinary happens, though Matt almost wishes something would. At least then he'd wake up a little. Over the course of the morning, he has four cups of coffee. Two more with lunch. Three in the afternoon...

Foggy and Karen are surely staring at him as if he's lost his mind as he trudges into the office's makeshift kitchen for his tenth cup of the day. As he stirs in the cream and sugar, Foggy quietly slips in beside him, effectively cornering him in the narrow space.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, whispering so softly it would be impossible for Karen to hear, even though she's just around the corner at her desk.

"I'm fine, Foggy. Just tired."

"Well that's what happens when you're out daredevilling at three in the morning..."

"Trust me, it wasn't my choice to be out that late."

"So what happened? You sounded pretty bad on the phone last night."

Matt shakes his head, sipping his coffee. It hasn't even put a dent in his exhaustion. "I was on my way home and kind of stumbled across some jackass MMA fighter-some guy named Macial-beating up a referee in an alleyway. He got in a few good hits but I stopped him."

"Jesus, an MMA fighter?"

"He wasn't that good."

Foggy shakes his head but apparently decides to leave it at that. "Alright, well, we've gotta talk opening statement for the trial. You gonna be awake enough?"

"I'll manage."

* * *

That evening, Matt leaves the office with every intention of stealing a few hours of sleep before putting on the mask. He shuffles home, yawning, mindlessly tapping his cane. Traffic is thinning out for the night, rush hour long since over. Only a handful of pedestrians are on the sidewalks and Matt doesn't bother reaching out with his senses. He's perfectly content, just for today, to be normal-blind. He's too tired to focus. Letting his cane lead the way, he pulls open the front door of his apartment building.

"Mr. Murdock!"

What now...? Matt turns, hearing footsteps approaching quickly from across the street. The man is obviously heavy, just jogging across the road leaves panting. His jacket, expensive and custom made, smells of rich cologne and imported cigars. Matt supresses his irritated sigh and plasters on a fake smile.

"Miller, nice to see you again."

Their former client pauses, wondering if that's some kind of blind joke, then lets it pass. "Mr. Murdock, I'm aware this must seem strange, me cornering you outside your home but...please, we must talk."

Matt resists the urge to groan and tries to ignore the exhaustion pulling down his eyelids. He must look like shit. Also, how did Miller know where he lives? "Well the office is currently closed, Mr. Miller, but feel free to drop by tomorrow when we're all in."

"No, no, Mr. Murdock, you misunderstand. I need to speak to you as a, uh, as a man...not a lawyer."

Matt frowns. "What do you-"

"Just please." Miller steps closer and lowers his voice, looking around almost frantically. "Word through the grapevine is that your firm has had contact with the, uh, the Man in the Mask? You know...Daredevil?"

Matt's blood runs cold. "No I'm afraid your information is wrong."

"Oh come on, Murdock! Don't jerk my chain here, my boys have all but _seen_ your firm working with Daredevil!" Matt is astounded. Not only is the first time Miller has ever admitted to having "boys", but is also the first time he's ever admitted to being involved in crime in any way. Of course, none of them-not even Karen-bought his story for one second...it's just startling to hear him admit it.

"I'm sorry, Miller," Matt says, struggling to keep cool. "Your boys are wrong. My firm has never had any dealings with vigilantes. Nor will we ever." He turns on his heel, heading up the steps when Miller lunges, grabbing his arm. Matt staggers, caught off guard, and wheels around to gape at the fat, seething man.

"Just listen! Okay? There's a new gang here in Hell's Kitchen, small-time, but rising fast. Some... _family-run_ nonesense. Old style, like the Italian mob. They wanted to make a deal, I said no-go and my boys chased 'em off. Well, evidently, they don't take no for an answer."

Matt shakes off Miller's meaty hand and scowls down at him from behind his red-tinted glasses.

"They got a hit out on me, Murdock," he finishes shakily. "I know they do. I need protection!"

Shit. Matt unclenches his jaw long enough to tell Miller to talk to his own lawyer before storming into his building. It's a cheap shot, he knows it. But he doesn't have time to fool around right now.

"You'll regret this, Murdock!" Miller shouts, pounding on the glass door.

Yeah, he probably will regret it. Not telling tubby to get lost, no he's supurbly pleased with that...

It's what he's _about to do_ that he'll come to regret later...

* * *

Miller obviously isn't as stupid as he looks.

Wherever he's going, he doesn't take a direct route. Instead, looping up and down various main roads, cutting down alleyways, hopping taxis. He's obviously trying not to be followed, his heart rate through the roof the entire way.

It's a cinch for Matt to follow him from his vantage point on the roof but he imagines it would be damn-near impossible to track him on the ground.

Still, Daredevil trails him the entire way, keeping an ear out for potential pursuers. He's not entirely sure he believes Miller's story since the small-time crime boss's pulse was unsteady and fast through the entire conversation, probably thanks to his short jog across the street. But that's not why he's following him, not entirely anyway.

Nelson and Murdock may not be his attorneys anymore but if the man's life is in danger, he can't just stand by and let him get killed.

Plus, he likes to be one step ahead of any moves the gangs of Hell's Kitchen might be making. And since Miller is obviously part of that scene, keeping an eye on him might be a good plan for now.

He tracks the smell of Miller's cologne all the way to the docks, where the fat man tosses a wad of crumpled bills at his cabbie, glances feverishly about, then disappears into one of the many rusted warehouses.

Slinking closer, Daredevil tilts his head, listening for other heartbeats. He finds six more within the warehouse. All steady and strong, save for Miller's which remains thready and elevated. That guy's not gonna make it to fifty years old.

He strains to hear the conversation between Miller and his "boys", but it's bland. Almost benign. They exchange pleasantries and Matt can't help but think their words may be encoded somehow. That or Miller is the nicest crime boss in Hell's Kitchen.

He doubts that's the case.

Padding softly across the peaked roof of the warehouse he's currently perched on, Matt jumps down to the ground, his boots hitting the pavement no louder than the rush of the waves nearby. Still undetected, he runs, crouched low, to the side door of the warehouse where Miller has just accepted a mug of coffee from one of his thugs.

The door creaks slightly upon opening it but the sound blends in with the other natural creaks and moans of an old dock-warehouse. He slips in unnoticed and kneels behind a stack of wooden crates wrapped in clear plastic. They're all empty except for a handful near the front of the building, which contain small shipments of cocaine.

"Any word from your friend?" one of the thugs asks suddenly.

Miller sips his coffee and sits down on a wooden chair pushed against the wall. "None yet, though I suspect it won't be long."

"You really think he'll try to help?"

"I don't doubt it."

Smug bastard.

Matt presses closer to the crates as one of the thugs passes by, assault rifle slung over his shoulder, cigarette hanging from his lips. He paces to the side door where Daredevil entered, peeks his head out, glances around, then returns to where Miller is seated.

It's times like these that Matt misses his black clothes. They blended in so well with the shadows.

Anyhow, these guys don't seem like they're going to spill any vital secrets or plans anytime soon and no one in their right mind is gonna try to take Miller out on his own terf. So Matt silently excuses himself from the warehouse, via an open window at the back of the warehouse.

These guys really need to work on their internal security.

There's a payphone two blocks from here, outside a 24-hour convenience store. One anonymous tip later and suddenly Miller will be in the safest place he can be if he wants to avoid getting shanked by a rival gang: prison.

Matt doesn't bother with the rooftops, he's too tired and there's virtually no traffic anyhow. No one around to see him in this deserted part of the Kitchen.

Daredevil makes his way there only slightly faster than a hustle. As always, the convenience store's clerk is bent over the counter, flipping through the pages of a dirty magazine, grinning as he sips a cold beer. He completely misses the devilish figure sweeping past his window and sliding into the payphone.

 _"New York Police Department, 15th precinct, sergeant Mahoney speaking."_

Matt almost grins. "Hello, sergeant. Got a present for you."

There's a long pause in which Matt can almost picture the dawning realization on Brett's face. _"Ho-ly shit."_

"Warehouse 12 at the docks. Six well armed men inside, a seventh unarmed but he's their boss. Man by the name of Samuel Miller. Runs a small drug ring within the Kitchen. Cocaine, mostly. Some ecstasy."

Matt can hear the sergeant passing a hand over his mouth, sighing heavily. _"Should I bring ambulances?"_

Daredevil chuckles, fighting a yawn. "Haven't touched them."

 _"That's a first."_

"You should hurry. Word on the street is Miller's got a hit out on him."

 _"A squad'll be there in five minutes. Don't suppose you'll hang around?"_

"Goodnight, sergeant." Matt hangs up the phone and slips past the store window again. He's heading for the fire escape on the side of the shop when he hears rapid footsteps closing in behind him. And the smell of lead and gunpowder.

The first bullet misses him by a hair, shattering the window of the convenience store. The clerk yelps and hits the deck. Matt whips around, yanking his batons off his thigh. His attacker stops, aims the gun (a .45, probably a stolen police glock), but doesn't fire. Matt tilts his head. He can already smell blood on the man's face and hands.

"You shoulda killed me when you had the chance, asshole..."

Matt's stomach sinks. He recognizes the voice. It's the jackass that attacked him last night...the boxer's buddy. "I don't kill people."

"Well, I do."

Matt jerks to the side as he fires the gun, the bullet crashing into the brick of the building behind him.

He chucks his baton, hears steel crack against skin and bone. The shooter collapses, his gun skittering away.

Police sirens are wailing in the near-distance. Close behind him, tires squeel against the pavement.

Daredevil turns just as a car peels through the alleyway, slamming to a stop just feet away from him. Three of the doors pop open, all but the driver's.

Five men get out. He can smell lead on them as well. And rich cologne. Their hearts are pumping with adrenaline and excitement. Miller's men are practically buzzing.

The boss himself isn't there. He just sent his goons.

Unfortunately, it's not until this moment that Matt realizes this was all a set up. Miller probably does have a hit out on him but that's not the real reason he wanted Daredevil to follow him...

The boxer _and_ his pal work for him.

And Daredevil pissed them off.

Picking his baton up off the ground, Matt squares off with the thugs. One of them chuckles, cocks his gun, and levels it with Matt's head. The others circle around, flanking him, aim their own weapons at various parts of his body.

"You know it's almost gonna be a shame to see you go, D," the first thug says, still snickering. "Every time you took out another gang, things got a little easier for us..." Four guns cock around him, fingers brushing the triggers. "Unfortunately, orders are orders. See ya' in hell, man."

Matt's baton hits the thug to his right before he gets a chance to fire. The man hits the ground hard and doesn't get back up.

Daredevil charges, sprinting through the line of fire. He plants a roundhouse kick to the jaw of the lead thug, who goes down with a yelp. Bullets are exploding the ground around him. Three left.

He rolls to the left, grabbing his baton as he goes.

Throwing it, it bounces off the wall and hits two of the thugs in one go.

The final man stands there, shaking in his boots, firing round after round that get no where near Matt.

Daredevil strides forward, knocks his gun hand aside, punches him in the jaw, and watches him fall down, groaning.

By now, the police have arrived at the warehouse. Matt listens, hearing them kick in the door and apprehend Miller successfully. The one armed man left behind was caught off guard and disarmed before he got the chance to be troublesome.

Since Brett is certain to come investigate the shots fired in this area, Matt decides to make himself scarce. He grabs his baton and that's when a hand closes around his ankle. The boxer's buddy scrambles to his feet, shoving Daredevil onto the ground.

A swift kick to the jaw and Matt is laying there stunned.

Blood drips from the man's head as he grabs Daredevil by the throat and grins. "Told you I would make you pay..." A hand moves upward, toward his mask...

Matt reflexively twists away, striking out.

They grapple for a moment as footsteps approach. The NYPD are just around the corner when Matt and his attacker stagger to their feet, wrestling until they slip backwards, toppling off the egde of the docks into the black maw of the rushing water beneath them.

* * *

The lights are off in Foggy's apartment.

He's wearing his pajamas, blankets pulled back, ready to go to sleep. Except he's not. He's standing in the middle of his dark apartment staring at the glowing screen of his cell phone. It's almost midnight. He told Matt to call him when he got home.

That was five hours ago.

He hasn't answered Foggy's calls, either. Normally, he would assume Matt decided to go daredevilling a little early, except that he was so exhausted. And he promised he would go home and rest. Sure, Matt's not the most honest fella in the world but he's never broken a promise.

Something's not right.

Foggy throws a jacket over his plaid PJ's and heads out the door.

* * *

He's disoriented.

Completely lost under the rolling waves. Nothing but blackness and thousands of ear-splitting, incomprehensible sounds assaulting his senses.

Panic sets in almost as soon as he crashes through the surface and starts to sink.

His opponent swims away easily, probably crawling to shore right into the arms of the NYPD. Daredevil, on the other hand, thrashes around, struggling to figure out which way is up. He can't hear anything on the surface, his hearing muffled by the icy vice grip all around him. Can't hear, can't breathe, can't smell, or touch, or see (obviously).

Wrapped in a suffocating blackness, all he can do is panic and drown...

That is, until hands grab his arms and haul him to the surface.

Foggy pounds on Matt's door a dozen times before giving up. Either he's not home or he's finally been beaten in that coma they've all been waiting for...

That thought sends a shiver down his spine and he jogs up the steps to the roof, slipping into his friend's apartment from the loft.

"Matt?" he whispers, feeling around for the light switch. "Matt, buddy, you here?" He can't help the nervous hitch in his voice... This feels damn similar to the day he found Matt half-dead, right here in his own living room. " _Matt?_ "

The kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom are empty.

He's not home.

Admittedly, Foggy only feels slightly better knowing that. Checking his phone again, he finds that it's nearly 12:30.

Maybe he'll just wait here until Matt gets home...

Just to be sure he's okay.

* * *

It's not until he's dragged to shore that Matt realizes it was Mahoney who saved him. As soon as he breaks the surface, he can smell the familiar scent of the imported cigars Bess loves so much, along with unscented deodorant, and black coffee. Normally, he would be able to smell more-shoe polish, fabric softener, gunpowder from the shooting range-but there's too much water pouring down his face.

Mahoney drags Daredevil to the mud-streaked breach and hauls him out of the waves. He's not unconscious, thankfully. Though the vigilante coughs and chokes and struggles against his help as though he's delirious.

Brett opens his mouth to say something, to calm his sort-of-ally, but comes up short. What do you say to a half-drowned, devil-suited vigilante?

"Sergeant Mahoney!"

Shit. That'd be his officers rushing down from the docks to help.

"Help" being to arrest Daredevil, as they're all offically instructed to do.

"Hey, man," Brett hisses, shaking Daredevil's shoulders. "Wake up. My officers see you and that's it, they'll arrest your ass. So get up 'cause that'd be one hell of a shame if you ask me."

Slowly, as his officers scramble down the muddy embankment almost on the other side of the port, Daredevil seems to rouse. He coughs a few times, water running down the sides of his mouth. By the way his breathing comes in short, wheezing rasps, Mahoney would say he must have inhaled some water...and should probably go to the hospital.

Daredevil pushes himself up, swaying. "Thank you," he rasps out.

"No problem. Call it payment for all the help you've given me. Now get your ass outta here and go see a doctor."

"What will you tell your officers?"

"Eh, you're a slippery one. Got away when I wasn't lookin'."

A deep frown sets under the Devil's mask. "Could get you in trouble."

"Nah, no one in the station really wants to see you behind bars. It's just official. Worst case scenario: I have to spend my free weekend filling out paperwork."

By now the shambling officers are closing in. Chances are, they can see the two figures by now, but are probably unable to tell what's happening. Brett's radio is alive with static-y chatter, which he ignores as Daredevil shakily climbs to his feet.

"I'm serious, man, get outta here."

The Devil nods stiffly, then bolts. As if trying to flee the custody of a highly respected sergeant who most definitely had no hand in his escape.

 _"Officer down! I repeat, officer down! Suspect on foot heading south toward 46th!"_

The other officers find Mahoney a moment later, picking himself up, dripping wet. As the story will be told later, he became involved with the tussle between Daredevil and one of the other suspects, was dragged into the Hudson with them and was unable to stop the vigilante from escaping.

Of course the suspect who attacked Daredevil, a man by the name of Paul Sale, would deny Sergeant Mahoney's presence during the fight but-obviously-no one in the station would believe him...

After all, denying he attacked an officer is an obvious response for a man with such a long criminal history...

* * *

It's almost two in the morning by the time Foggy hears slow, heavy footsteps trudging down the steps from the loft. He springs awake, having been dozing off in the arm chair, and gapes at Matt's slouched, exhausted form shuffling into the living room.

Matt pulls off his helmet and tosses it onto the floor. His hair is drenched and sticking to his forehead, fresh bruises blossoming across his face and neck. He pauses, hearing Foggy, then drops onto the couch with a stifled moan.

"What're you doin' here, Foggy...?" he whispers. His voice sounds ragged and he coughs, wincing, rubbing his chest.

"I was worried about you...thought you said you were going home early to get some sleep, not... _this_. Again."

"I didn't mean to," Matt mutters, peeling his suit off. "Trust me, Foggy, there is _nothing in the world_ I want right now more than sleep." He doesn't even bother wadding the devil suit up, just lets it fall to the floor in a wet heap. His skin is damp, leaving a dark spot on the couch where he's laying in his underwear.

Foggy gapes at the reddish-purple bruise marring the majority of his friend's midsection. It's so bright it almost looks like blood, as big around as a dinner plate. "Jesus, Matt...what the hell?"

Matt touches the bruise and flinches. "This is old," he mumbles. "Last night."

"That why you were late yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"Christ... Why are you all wet?"

"Fell into the Hudson."

"Well...are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Foggy sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "No offense, dude, but you don't look okay. Or sound okay, for that matter. In fact, you look like shit."

Matt cracks a thin smile. "Thanks, man."

"You want me to hang around for a while? Till you're feeling better?"

"Nah I'm serious, Fog, I'm alright. Just uncomfortably damp and tired."

Foggy snorts, padding into his friend's bedroom. He finds a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie laying on the bed. Probably from yesterday but, really, who the hell cares? He brings them out and tosses them to Matt. He does try to grab them, which only makes it funnier when they land squarely on his face.

He must be even more exhausted than he lets on. He mutters what Foggy thinks is supposed to be 'thanks' but comes out more like 'mfffngnngn' and then struggles into the sweats.

"Alright, well, if you're sure..." Foggy says, hands in his pockets.

"I am. Go home, get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." Matt pries himself off the couch and shuffles into his bedroom. Maybe it's a good thing his exhaustion has diminished his senses. At least he might get a few hours rest without hearing every siren and scream in ten mile radius...

Flopping onto the bed, he listens for Foggy heading out but dozes off before his friend can even make it to the door.

Coincidentally, Foggy doesn't leave anyway. If there's one thing he's learned about Matt, it's when he says he's okay, he's usually the opposite of okay.

Foggy ends up sticking around for another few hours, just to be sure. By the time he does head out, he's feeling sleep deprived and knows he'll be next to useless at the office.

But hey, Matt's better at opening statements anyway. He can carry them through the first day of trial...

Hopefully.


	4. Bullet Wounds

It all went down about two days ago.

A big, high profile fight in the streets of Hell's Kitchen. Daredevil versues about two dozen hit men of some big gang. Matt had spoken to Foggy about them briefly a couple weeks ago when he'd come into the office with a angry bruise on his jaw. He'd been trying to take them down for a few months, apparently, and it all led to that shit show two nights ago.

The fight was messy. No one died, as per Matt's personal code, but half the guys ended up in the hospital, a few more arrested, a handful in the wind... And Matt's been gone ever since. Karen asked about him when he didn't show up to the office and Foggy had to lie, like always. Said Matt hadn't been feeling well so he told him to stay home and take it easy. She bought it, or at least he thinks she did.

But now another day has gone by and Matt is two hours late for work. Karen hasn't mentioned it yet but she seems busy this morning. She's at her desk shuffling papers, pouring over another grand mystery. Foggy is supposed to be doing the same, going over the file of a new client. Instead he's sitting at his desk, hunched over the glowing screen of his laptop, watching a clip of the fight on the local news channel's website.

The image is fuzzy, zoomed real close since the camera crew didn't dare get anywhere near the fight, but Foggy can make out the form of Daredevil wailing on an armed thug. Matt throws his baton and it knocks another guy flat, clattering away to somewhere off the screen.

There's a gunshot and the reporter beside the cameraman screams. The camera jerks and for a split second, all he can see is the ground, then the sky, then what looks like a car tire, maybe.

Foggy smashes the pause button just as the camera whips up again. And there, just as he's seen four dozen times already this morning, is the blown-out, blurry form of Daredevil hunched over, clutching his side, staggering...

The video ends there.

That's the last Foggy has seen of his best friend since two nights ago. Sixteen phone calls, four trips to Matt's apartment, a visit to Claire, even a quick peek in Josie's and...nothing. For all intents and purposes, Matt is just...gone.

Foggy sighs, leans his forehead in his hand and closes his eyes. His head is killing him, his stomach is churning, and he's been so jittery that his first and only cup of coffee lays untouched on the corner of his desk. He only got it in the first place to put on a good show for Karen. The only reason he showed up to work at all was for Karen.

Well, that and the desperate, pointless hope that Matt would show up.

Rubbing his temples with his eyes still closed, Foggy closes the laptop and leans his head on the cool surface of the desk.

"Aspirin?"

His head snaps up, his heart giving a jerk he would have been embarassed for Matt to hear. Seeing that it's only Karen, smiling thinly at him from the doorway of his office, Foggy exhales shakily.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you..." she murmurs, breathing a little laugh.

"It's alright. At least I'm definitely awake now." He forces a smile and Karen returns the gesture. It's only then he realizes she's wearing a rain coat and has her purse in her hand. "Goin' out?"

"Uh, yeah. Got some...things to check up on."

Foggy nods. He has no idea what lead she might be chasing now but he knows better than to pry. "Okay, uh, see you. Be careful."

She nods, stepping into the office to lay a white pill bottle on the corner of his desk. He raises an eyebrow but Karen just gives him that sympathetic look that makes her gentle, blue eyes shimmer. "I know things are kinda hard right now...but...we always make it through."

Fog can't quite manage another smile so he just nods, gives her a thumbs up, and makes a show of downing an aspirin with a swig of this morning's cold coffee.

Karen disappears out the door a moment later. Foggy waits a decent amount of time before following her lead, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' before making his way to the stairwell. He doesn't know where he's going, just that he has to go.

He has to get out of this office.

Away from the compulsion to stare at the laptop screen some more, trying desperately to convince himself Matt might still be alive out there.

* * *

Traffic plows on as usual, an intense rain blurring the street with mist and the glow of street lamps, even though it's the middle of the day. Foggy stands on the sidewalk, just a handful of feet from where Matt stood two nights ago in that fight. There's no blood anywhere, but then again there wouldn't be. Not with the rain. Hands shoved in his pockets, head down, trying to simultaneously protect himself from the downpour and also look inconspicious amid the constant flow of pedestrians moving around him, Foggy surveys his surroundings, trying to think like Matt.

He's just wrapped up a fight with a bunch of a-holes, he's injured, tired, looking to get away before the cops arrive...where does he go?

A narrow alleyway to his left seems plausible. A good starting place, at least.

Foggy shrugs past the foot traffic all around him, breaking into the gloomy corridor. It's a dead end, leading to a blank concrete wall, but for a pratically superhuman vigilante daredevil, that means almost nothing. Looking up, Foggy squints into the falling rain, smiling at his own cleverness when he spots the fire escape halfway up the wall to his right. And the open dumpster beneath it.

He steals a quick glance at the people walking by. No one seems to notice him, and if they do, they don't show it. So he steps closer to the dumpster, swings its heavy plastic lid shut and climbs on top. The bottom step of the fire escape comes up to his mid section so it's a bit of a struggle...a very ungraceful, noisy, grunting kind of struggle, to get himself up onto it but once he does, he's streaked with rusty mud and soaked all down the front of his suit...but he's feeling kind of badass. He climbs the steps two at a time and heads up as high as he can go.

He jimmies the handle of the door on the top platform, hoping to get inside but it's locked. Rubbing his neck, Fog descends one platform and this time the door opens. Dripping wet, he steps inside and glances around, heart fluttering because even though this technically isn't breaking and entering, it's also probably a little illegal.

There's a 'roof access' sign at the end of the hall above a black door and Foggy makes a beeline for it. Thankfully it isn't locked and he jogs up the steps, panting by the time he reaches the top. Pushing out the heavy door onto the roof, he's assaulted by rain again but persists out into the open anyway, laying his briefcase in the crack of the door just to be sure it won't lock behind him.

The roof is bare except for a few clothes lines, some whirring vents, and a couple peaked skylights. Foggy does his best to ignore the sudden wave of deja vu he feels when he realizes how similar this all is to the time Punisher shot Matt in the head. The wave of anger that strangles his throat and mists his eyes, he doesn't resist however. Damn right he's mad. He should be.

Using his anger as fuel for adrenaline, Foggy runs across the roof, crossing it in a few seconds. Shading his eyes against the downpour, he scans the surrounding rooftops, searching for a speck of red or black. He sees nothing. Just a lot of washed out gray.

Stepping back, Foggy rubs his neck, grimacing. "Where the hell are you, Matt?" Digging out his cell phone, he tries his friend's number again. It rings eight times before going to voice mail.

 _"This is Matt Murdock. I'm not available right now. Leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."_ At the shrill beep, Foggy opens his mouth, takes a sharp breath and says,

"Matt, it's Foggy. Just, uh, call...call me back when you get this, buddy... Okay? I'm, uh, I'm kinda worried about you. Karen is too. Uh...bye." Swallowing the lump in his throat, Foggy heads back into the stairwell with his head hanging low. The next number he jabs out mechanically, without really thinking about it. It rings twice before there's an answer.

 _"Hello?"_

"Hey, Claire, it's Foggy."

 _"Oh, hey. Have you heard from Matt yet?"_

"Uh, no... I was, um, actually hoping you had."

 _"No, I'm sorry. I could check the computers again, if you'd like. See if he's checked in at any of the other hospitals around the Kitchen."_

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great." Foggy heads out the same door he came in, climbing down onto the dumpter and into the alleyway. He doesn't go anywhere from there, though, just stands under the meager shelter of the fire escape listening to the sound of Claire's fingers on the keyboard. Typing out Matt's name.

 _"Foggy? You still there?"_

"Yeah. Any luck?"

Claire sighs. _"No, I'm sorry. He's not registered at any of the hospitals, there's no record of him coming into the ER either."_

Foggy rubs his eyes. "Thanks for checking, Claire. I'll give you a call if I hear from him..."

 _"Thanks, Foggy. I'm sure he'll turn up."_

* * *

Fog scours the surrounding area for the next two hours, until he's so thoroughly hopeless and soaked to the skin that he can't stand to be outside one more second. Trudging back to the office, dripping water behind him as he goes, he finds that Karen still isn't back. Which is good since she would definitely have a few questions as to why he's so drenched and where he's been for two hours.

Peeling off his wet clothes, Foggy tosses them into the corner and wriggles into his emergency suit he keeps stored in the cardboard box behind the filing cabinet. A precaution on his part after a few too many meetings with clients spent trying to hide coffee stains, sweaty arm pits, moth holes and the like. Matt laughed when he found out... Said it was kind of clever.

Foggy collapses into his office chair. Elbows on his knees, hunched over, he buries his face in his hands.

God.

It's been two days.

If Matt really was shot, he could be dead by now. Bled out in some smelly alleyway...

Tears spring to his eyes at that thought. At how utterly unfair it is.

Matt may not be exactly the man Foggy always thought him to be, he may not agree with his methods but _dammit_ , Matt's a good man. It's not fair that he should have to do this alone. And it's doubley unfair that Foggy might never know what happened to him!

His cell phone buzzes in his pocket. For a few seconds, he doesn't feel it. He's so wrapped up in desperate plans to find his friend that it's likely the fifth or sixth ring before he fishes the phone out of his pocket, glancing dully at the screen, frowning at the number. He doesn't know it.

Probably a prospective client. Which he really isn't in the mood to talk to.

Sighing, Foggy tosses his phone onto the desk and gets up to pace away. Coffee isn't a good idea but if he remembers right, there should be a bottle of orange juice or something in the fridge. The phone stops ringing and Foggy drops onto the couch, letting his head lull back against the wall. He shuts his eyes. He didn't sleep well last night with the whole 'missing best friend thing' and his eyelids are getting heavy all of a sudden.

He's just slipping away into a light doze when Karen returns, jolting him awake with a gentle touch and a mildly concerned smile. "Sorry," she says. "Your phone's ringing."

Foggy groans, blinking to get the sleep out of his eyes. He yawns and asks Karen if she'd answer it for him while he gets that cup of coffee he's been avoiding.

"Sure," she says. She disappears into his office with the click of heels on tile. Foggy rubs his forehead and turns the coffee machine on, listening to the growling and bubbling coming from inside. He can't hear what Karen is saying but she sounds light and friendly. A client then.

She strolls around the corner, the phone held between her shoulder and her ear, her hands occupied with a thick folder full of pages. He doesn't recognize it so it must be from whatever lead she was just chasing. "Well I'm glad to hear you're feeling better, the office has been too quiet without you."

Foggy almost drops the mug in his hand, whipping around to stare at Karen, though she doesn't notice. Gaping, heart racing, he hustles over and grabs her by the crook of the elbow. "Is that Matt?"

He must look as spooked as he feels because Karen stares for a second before nodding.

"Here-let me-" Foggy grabs the phone from her and immediately shuts himself into his office. Hands shaking, he fumbles to hold the device up to his ear. "Matt?!"

The voice on the other end is raspy and tired. _"Hey, buddy."_

"Oh christ..." Foggy deflates. Like every nerve ending in his body suddenly relaxes. "Where...where the hell have you been?! Do you have any idea how worried I was?!"

 _"I know...I know, I'm sorry I was..."_ Matt sighs. Something in the sound of it doesn't sound right. Kind of...wet. Gurgle-y. _"Busy."_

"Busy," Foggy repeats stiffly.

 _"Y...yeah."_

"Well, are you okay, at least? You were on the news. Looked bad." He isn't sure what he hopes the answer will be. He feels bad hoping Matt is hurt but a little part of him does. At least that would explain why he's been gone, why he hasn't called. It's better than knowing he was just too busy doing whatever it is he does to give his friends a call, let them know he's okay.

Still, he feels terrible when Matt responds. _"Actually, uh...I could...I could use a little...help. I'm kinda..."_ He trails off and Foggy frowns.

"Matt?"

 _"Uh...s...sorry..."_ He sounds...off all of a sudden. Or maybe he has the entire time and Foggy just now noticed. " _I'm calling on a pay phone...cell's dead...could...could use a little help if you're in the area..."_

"Uh, sure, buddy." Foggy glances over his shoulder at Karen through the window. She's standing behind her desk, arms crosses, occasionally stealing peeks his way. She's wondering what's up. "Where are you?"

Matt coughs. Even over the phone it sounds wet and really, really bad.

"Matt?"

His friend wheezes a little when he speaks. " _Kinda near...Josie's, I think. Can't tell."_

Can't tell? Since when can't Matt tell where he is? Foggy kind of got the impression he sees more than a normal person, even though he's technically blind. Needless to say a chill crawls down his spine. "Okay, okay, I'll find you. I'll be right there."

* * *

It takes a few more tactical lies to get Karen to stay at the office but Foggy is too worried to feel guilty right now. By the time he heads out again, the rain has all but let up, a light drizzle misting his face as he sprints down the sidewalk, waving at any taxi that goes by. Luckily, one of the first ones takes mercy on him and pulls over. Foggy piles in and breathlessly gasps out the name of Josie's bar and the street number.

They arrive minutes later, passing the only pay phone on the block a few yards back. Foggy shoves a handful of dollars at the cabbie and takes off to the phone booth. A wave of bile rises in his throat at the sight of the glass booth smeared with blood on the inside. His voice is high and strained when he calls out his friend's name. He doesn't get a response that makes it even worse.

"Matt!" Foggy shoves past the handful of stragglers on the sidewalk, mindless to their dirty looks. The narrow alley between the bar and the run down tenement beside it seems to be calling to him. He sprints down to where it opens into a crumbling back road, only wide enough for bikes and foot traffic, a maze of fire escapes and ladders overhead and an obstacle course of metal trash cans, dumpsters, and abandoned furniture. And there, sitting with his back to a wall and his head drooped against his chest, is Daredevil. "Shit...oh shit..." Foggy drops his jacket and briefcase and stumbles to Matt's side. "Shit...shit...Matt? Matt, are you okay?"

In the misting rain, streams of diluted blood run off the red devil suit, though it's hard to tell where it's coming from. Matt groans softly under the mask, but Foggy can't tell if he's awake or not. Glancing from side to side, making sure they're alone, Foggy pulls the head piece off. Matt's eyes are open, but just barely. He stares, unseeing, at the ground, his hair twisted with dried blood, an angry welt below his left eye.

"Matt? Come on, wake up, buddy...wake up." He lightly smacks his friend's cheeks, trying to rouse some kind of intelligent reaction. Matt moans again and his hand twitches, like he tried to lift it but gave up. "That's it, Matt. Wake up."

Daredevil squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head slightly, like he's trying to clear his head. Blind eyes flutter open, staring sightlessly just past Foggy's shoulder. He coughs weakly and it still sounds wet and painful. "Thanks for coming..." Matt whispers. His voice sounds like an eighty year old smoker.

Foggy decidedly doesn't acknowledge the thanks. His stomach is hot, the all too familiar rage seeping back into his blood stream. "Can you get up?"

Matt nods. Foggy hooks one of his friend's arms over his shoulder and between the two of them, they manage to stagger to their feet. Blood seeps into Foggy's white shirt from somewhere near the vigilante's ribs. Matt's face pales considerably once they're standing and his eyes roll up, his knees sagging beneath him.

"No, no, no-" Foggy gasps, struggling to keep him on his feet. " _Come on, Matt,_ work with me!"

"Sorry," he grinds out. "Dizzy."

Josie's bar is about five blocks from Matt's apartment. From the breathless, unbalanced way his friend is swaying, he doubts they could make it even one block. A taxi would be easier but try explaining to some random cabbie why Daredevil is bleeding on his backseat. He's pretty sure Karen has a car but that would take some explaining too...

Matt leans heavily on him as they start down the alley in the general direction of his apartment. While Foggy half-drags his bleeding best friend, he asks Matt for that burner he always carries.

Slow, clumsy, almost drunken hands unzip the pocket of his thigh and out comes the black flip phone. Foggy takes it and snaps open the screen. There are only two contacts in the whole thing. His number and Claire's.

Somehow, that manages to piss him off even more. Knowing that, until a few months ago, there was only one number in there. One ER nurse being his entire support system, the only thing standing between Matt and an untimely death.

Foggy jabs out Claire's number, squinting through the rain as Matt's weight bears down heavier and heavier with every passing second.

 _"Hello?"_

"Claire, it's Foggy." He can hear the hustle and bustle of the ER behind her voice. Beeping machines, crying babies, shouting.

 _"...shit. What happened."_

"Our, uh, mutual friend needs your help again." Foggy thinks he feels Matt shiver, but looking down he finds an out of place grin on his friend's lips.

Claire sighs. _"How bad is he?"_

"Bad enough to call you." He doesn't want to say over the phone and Claire seems to understand.

 _"I'll be there as soon as I can."_

"Thanks, Claire." She hangs up and Foggy puts the phone in his pocket.

"Mutual friend?" Matt whispers, chuckling weakly.

"Do not make fun of me. I'm trying to cover for your ass."

"I know..."

* * *

They arrive at the apartment only seconds before Claire.

By the time they get up the fire escape and into the bedroom, Matt is practically unconscious. Skin pale, suit dripping blood.

"Lay him on the bed," Claire says urgently. She snaps on a pair of plastic gloves and helps Foggy peel off the battered Daredevil suit, tossing it to the floor. What they reveal makes Foggy's stomach turn.

He'd known getting shot with a shotgun is bad news, but he never imagined this.

The flesh over Matt's left side is mangled. Torn to shreds, oozing blood, and full of chunks of lead.

Claire swears under her breath, going still for a moment, her hands hovering over the injury. It's not the first time the gravity of Matt's various wounds has startled her...but this _is_ the first time one has made her feel useless.

She can feel Foggy staring at her, wondering why she isn't doing anything while his best friend bleeds out on his bed.

Thing is, there really is nothing she _can_ do.

She's just a nurse, dammit. What Matt needs is emergency surgery. A whole team of trained surgeons, bags of anesthesia, morphine, blood transfusions. Not one nurse, a lawyer, and an unsantized queen sized bed.

This is officially out of her realm.

"Claire...?" Foggy urges. He's holding Matt's hand. His white shirt is stained red.

"Stitches won't cut it this time," she tells him, startled by the strength of her voice when the rest of her feels like melting down. "There's not much to stitch, his skin is torn to shreds."

"Okay so...what do we do?"

"We'll have to cauterize the wound."

Foggy swallows. "How do we do that?"

"Good question..." Claire rips off her jacket, lays it over Matt's side and tells Foggy to press down as hard as he can. He obeys and Matt squirms underneath him, hissing in pain.

Sprinting out into the kitchen, Claire throws open every cabinet, every drawer, looking for something that will work. Finally, she settles on a large steak knife in the drawer beside the oven, which she cranks on to the highest temperature.

" _Claire_!"

Shit, what now! She runs back to the bedroom to find Foggy leaning over Matt's face. When he sits up, his eyes are watering.

"He's not breathing..."

No.

"Move." Claire scrambles onto the bed as Foggy moves aside. Straddling Matt's hips, she leans her cheek over his mouth and nose. She feels nothing. Foggy was right.

"What's happening..." Foggy asks, his voice shaking.

"He's going into cardiac arrest." It's been a long time since Claire's done CPR on anyone but a training dummy. Usually, there are defibrillators for this. And doctors are usually the ones to use them.

She has her certification though so she starts pumping his chest, pinching his nose, and blowing into his mouth, which tastes like blood. Over and over and over, pausing only long enough to feel for a pulse.

His heart hasn't stopped yet but he refuses to breathe.

The oven goes off, beeping shrilly.

"Foggy, listen to me," she gasps out between breaths. "Get the steak knife on the counter and heat it in the oven. Bring it back when it's red hot."

He doesn't move, eyes fixated on Matt's face.

" _Move!_ " she barks.

Foggy jumps and then sprints out of the room.

"Come on, you stubborn son of a bitch..." Matt's ribs creak under the pressure and she's just waiting for them to snap. Still, his heart keeps going so that's all that matters.

Foggy returns a moment later, holding out the sizzling knife at arm's length. "What do I do with this?"

"Move my jacket, press it to his injury and keep it there. Might as well do it while he can't feel it."

Foggy obeys with trembling hands.

Matt's skin sizzles upon contact and his body jerks, his face screwing up in pain...and then he sucks in a shocked gasp and _screams_. Claire jumps back, feeling the strangest sense of relief upon hearing him shrieking in agony.

At least he's breathing.

But Foggy on the other hand looks like he's about to faint. Claire gets off the bed and moves to his side, taking the knife from him so he can stumble away and sit on the floor.

The knife cools down startlingly fast and the wound is only half-sealed before it's too cool to use. Still, it's better than nothing. Claire tosses the bloody knife aside and places her jacket back over the injury.

Somehow, Matt is awake. But not for long, by the looks of it. She can only hope he's lucid enough to answer the one question that matters before he passes out again.

"Matt? Matt, can you hear me?"

He groans in response.

"Listen, this is really important...I need to know what blood type you are."

His mouth moves as if he's trying to speak but all that comes out is garbled whimpers of pain and ragged wheezing.

"Come on, Matt, I can't do any more to help you unless I know your blood type."

Finally, he grinds it out. "A...A positive..."

Shit. She's B positive, she can't donate to him. Turning, Claire sees Foggy trying very hard not to hyperventilate.

"Foggy? Hey, you okay?"

He looks up, wide eyed. "Yeah..."

"What blood type are you?"

He frowns, confused. "Uh...O positive...I think?"

"You have to be sure! Are you O positive or not?"

"Uhh..." Suddenly, he rolls to his knees, pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. "I have it on my driver's license...yeah! O positive. Is that good?"

"That's perfect. Come here." He stands, edging closer. Claire packs her jacket tighter against the wound and then snatches her bag off the floor. "You ever give blood before?"

"Uh, once."

"How'd it go?"

"I fainted."

She blinks at him. "How much did you give?"

"Uh, fssh, I don't know. Like, a couple of those little vial-thingys?"

Christ. "Then have a seat. You're gonna give a lot more than that."

Foggy visibly pales. "To-to Matt? Are you sure we're compatible?"

"Assuming he's A positive and you're O positive, then yes." She takes out syringes, tubing, bandages... Most of this stuff she keeps on her in case she needs to make a makeshift IV drip. At least this is a...similar concept.

Foggy sits and holds out his arm but he still looks nervous. "Are you sure that's safe?"

"You don't have kind of blood-born illnesses, right?"

"Not that I know of!"

"Then it's fine." She swabs his arm with alcohol. "You're gonna feel a pinch."

Foggy winces when she inserts the needle, attaches the tubing, and then turns to Matt.

"Look, I know this is kinda crazy and I would probably lose my nursing licence if anyone found out I was doing this but we both know he can't go to a hospital and, honestly, I don't have time to run down, check out a bag of blood, and bring it all the way back here. If he doesn't get some blood in him _right now_ , we're gonna lose him."

Foggy swallows, looking over at his friend, whose eyes are closed again and breathing rapidly. "Take as much as he needs."

* * *

Things have settled down over the last hour.

Claire pads into the bedroom, carrying a glass of orange juice and a plate of crackers, offering them to Foggy. He's pale and probably weak and dizzy but refuses to let Claire unhook the drip, even though she's warned him three times he's getting close to the limit he can give before it gets dangerous.

"Thanks," he says, sipping the juice. "This is pretty thirsty work, huh?"

She chuckles. "So I've heard." Moving to the bedside, she presses her fingers to Matt's throat, feeling the steady thumping of his pulse with great relief. The antibiotics and powerful painkillers draining into his other arm keep him asleep and semi-comfortable.

"How's he doing...?"

"Much better. He'll pull through." Still, Foggy looks sad. She isn't sure what, exactly, is going through his head but she's got a vague idea. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Claire unhooks the drip connected to Foggy, silencing him before he can argue. "He's got enough, Foggy. Keep going and all you'll accomplish is landing yourself in the ER."

He goes quiet then, while Claire removes the needle from his arm and wraps a bandage around the entry site. Watches silently as she does the same for Matt, who is out like a light. She throws the needles, tubing, and soiled bandages into the trashcan in the kitchen, then returns to check Matt's wound.

The worst of the injury is taken care of. There's still the matter of the shrapnel to remove but since it's not entirely sealed, that won't be too hard. She'll wait a few days before that though. Long enough for his body to regenerate all the blood he's lost. The only other part to worry about is the half of the injury which didn't burn shut and is still bleeding. Of course, tight enough bandages will solve that problem by tomorrow morning.

Looks like she'll be bunking here for a while...

And using up the rest of her sick days. Dammit.

Claire wraps his wound again and sinks down onto the floor. It's been one hell of a night and she'd love to get some rest... Looks like that won't be for a while though.

Beside her in the arm chair they pulled in from the living room, Foggy sips his orange juice and tries not to think about how close he got to losing his best friend. Instead, to distract himself, he tries to figure out where he might have been for those two days he was missing. Why it took him so long to call.

The only thing he can figure is also probably the worse thing he can imagine.

The gang he was fighting must have had him.

Maybe they were going to torture him. ...maybe they _did_ torture him.

And almost certainly they must know his identity now.

Of course...he _was_ wearing the mask when Foggy found him...

Glancing sideways at Matt, who looks peaceful in his drug-induced sleep, Foggy sighs. He's tired. Tired from the stress of these last two days (three days now, according to the clock), tired from carrying Matt's ass all the way home, tired from giving so much blood... Too tired to be angry for his friend's recklessness and stubbornness.

At this point, he doesn't care if Matt is Daredevil for the rest of his life.

He just wants him to wake up.

* * *

"Hey," Claire says suddenly. She's smirking, shadows under her eyes, looking about as exhausted as Foggy feels. "At least you didn't faint again."

The next morning, Foggy wakes up to the sound of slow, uneven footsteps on the hardwood floors. He jolts awake, gaping at the sight of Matt trudging out of his room, pulling his IV drip behind him.

"Woah, woah!" Jumping to his feet, Foggy scrambles past Claire's cot on the floor. She's just rousing as well. "You should not be up! He should not be up!"

"Relax, Foggy, I feel fine..." Matt says, somewhat drowsily.

"Fine my ass! Claire, _tell him_!"

"He's right, Matt, you shouldn't be moving around yet."

Matt opens his mouth to protest again but Foggy is having none of it. He sternly-gently-steers Matt over to the couch, all but pushing him down onto it. Obviously, Matt winces and rubs his side. Claire pulls his hand away and kneels beside him, lifting the corner of his gauze to check the wound underneath.

"Looks like the worst of the bleeding has stopped," she says. "But keep moving around and you'll tear the clot and start all over again." She stands, inspects his drips and shakes her head. "You're almost out. I'll need to run to the hospital to get more."

"Isn't that illegal or something?" Matt grumbles, struggling to get comfortable.

"A lot of things I've done this past 24 hours have been illegal."

He raises his eyebrows. "Do I want to know what that means?"

"It means we saved your ass. Again." Foggy's voice is stern, verging on angry. "Now, tell us it was worth it. Where the hell have you been the past two days?!"

Matt's brow furrows, a deep frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. "I, uh, don't think you want to-"

"No. I assure you, we want to know."

Matt shifts, licking is lips. "The men I was fighting..."

"Those thugs that shot you?"

"Yeah. They came looking for me. After they, you know..."

"Shot you."

"Yeah." Matt sort of looks uncomfortable every time Foggy mentions the shooting part. Makes him want to say it even more. "I kept my distance for a while but they were...they were everywhere."

"So what'd you do?"

"Couldn't go home, they would have seen me. Couldn't get anywhere near here. So, more or less, I kept moving. Tried to lead them out of the Kitchen so I could lose them."

"For _two days_?"

"No, just-just the first day...I think. It's hard to remember..." Indeed, Matt's face is screwed up in intense concentration, as if grasping for any fragment of memory he can think of. "It's kind of a blur. The second day, I think I...may have been unconscious for most of it."

"Jesus, Matt..."

"But you obviously lost them," Claire adds, finally jumping into the conversation.

"Yeah. Last I saw, they were still searching for me a few miles south of Hell's Kitchen. I looped back, made it as far as Josie's, and that's when I called."

Foggy exhales deeply, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. A million different responses are running through his mind and it's pretty much a spin of a wheel which one he'll blurt out first. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) Claire speaks up first.

She's grabbed one of Matt's hoodies out of the wardrobe is slipping it over her bloodied scrubs. "Look, I'm gonna leave the two of you to hash this thing out. Right now, it's technically still night shift at the ER so if I hurry, I might be able to slip into the room they keep the blood bags in and sneak one out unnoticed. Skeleton crew at night, you know?" She heads out in a hustle, running down the steps and out the front door, leaving Matt and Foggy alone in a heavy silence.

"You're lucky to be alive," Foggy says after a while, sinking onto one of the bar stools in the kitchen.

"You think I don't know that?"

"You stopped breathing for a while. Did you know _that_?"

Matt doesn't reply to that. And his face reveals very little.

"Look, just..." Foggy stands, hands on his hips, pacing. "Just tell me you have an end game, okay? What...where do _you_ draw the line? Because...the shit that I just went through, that _Claire_ just went through...that's not fair, Matt-"

"The world's not fair, Foggy. It's not fair that-"

"-I need to know that if I lose you, and right now, that's looking like a very good possibility, then it wasn't for nothing."

"-people are _dying_ , _Foggy_! People are getting killed and I have the ability to stop it-"

"Just what are you trying to accomplish, man?! What's your end game?!"

"-I can stop it, Foggy. I put the right people behind bars and there's gonna be a lot less pain and suffering in Hell's Kitchen."

"What are you _trying to prove_?!"

"I'm not trying to prove _anything_!"

" _Bullshit_ , alright! Normal people don't run around in devil costumes beating people up unless they have something to prove!"

"Are you honestly telling me that if you had the abilities I have, you wouldn't try to use them to make a difference?! A real difference!"

"I don't have your abilities, Matt! I can't tell when you're lying, okay?! I can't hear your heartbeat! You say you're alright, you say you're just trying to help. How am I supposed to know you're not lying! How do I know you're not just like the Punisher!"

Matt stops shouting then. His face is hard as stone as he stands up off the couch, eye level with Foggy though his eyes drift to the left. "I am nothing like him."

Foggy scowls at him, even though he knows he can't see it. "I don't know, Matt...Frank Castle didn't know when to stop, either. Now he's locked up in a max security prison...which seems like a nice alternative for what almost happened to _you_ yesterday."

Matt's jaw is clenched tight. He stares into the distance past Foggy's left shoulder, practically seething, fists shaking by his sides. "You want to know my end game? Fine." He leans in real close, voice hard as steel when he says, "There is no line to draw, Foggy. Either I fix this city or I _die trying_. I appreciate you helping me, but nothing you ever do or say is going to stop me."

Matt stands by, silent, motionless, while Foggy grabs his coat and shoes. He stomps out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

He stalks past Karen on the steps and doesn't stop to deter her from paying Matt a visit. Let him deal with her for once.

Even when she calls out his name, he ignores her.

He is so beyond caring at this point.

* * *

A/N: Not as happy an ending for this one... Tbh I got tired of trying to make all of these happy so I figured, what the heck? Misery for everyone!


End file.
